Unacceptance
by dimbledar23
Summary: Argus Filch has suffered long enough at the hands of his perfect brother and decides to carry out revenge that is terrible far beyond anything he has ever done before. One-shot.


**Hi, me again. This is a one-shot I wrote for a friend about the idea I'd had about why she didn't get a Hogwarts letter on her birthday. She enjoyed it, so I hope you do too.**

Argus Filch hated his brother. He had hated his brother from the second he'd caught sight of the nasty, perfect little brat. As a child, he had hated him because of how everyone seemed to like him from the moment they set eyes on his chubby little face. He hated him because he was always their parent's favourite and could apparently do no wrong. He hated him because he was more intelligent and witty than Argus was.

Nevertheless, most of all he hated his brother because of the simple fact that Praestans was a wizard, and Argus had been doomed to the eternal torment of being a Squib. From the second that Praestans was born, Argus had had to deal with the fact that never again in his life would be more than second best. He had to come to terms with the fact that he would never be the best looking, or the most talented or the most popular; he would be plain old Argus. Weird Argus. The one that the children shied away from at school. Ugly Argus. The one with the crooked nose and scraggly hair. Spiteful Argus. The one that used to lash out because he didn't understand things like the other children did.

Weird, ugly, spiteful Argus the Squib. Born of pure wizarding blood, Argus was the first Squib in his family for fourteen centuries; and Praestans never let him forget it. It wasn't bad enough, it seemed, that Argus had no friends and no talents, as his brother took it upon himself to make every moment of his life that could have been even the slightest bit happy, completely miserable. Praestans tormented him until Argus slumped into a corner and cried, wishing he could just fade into the shadows. After all, no one would care if he did. His parents had the perfect child; why would they care about their other, lesser son when they were blessed with a son that could do no wrong? A son that had everything Filch didn't – including a Hogwarts acceptance letter.

* * *

As an adult, Argus' hatred and bitterness continued to fester, scarring and constricting his blackened heart.

_Rat-a-tat-tat! Rat-a-tat-tat_! The barn owl pecked at the window, a scroll secured around it's leg, trying to get the attention of Argus Filch. Filch shuffled over to the window, flicked open the latch, tore the scroll from the bird's leg and swung the window shut, knocking the bird backwards. Filch fell heavily back into his chair and gave a shallow, wheezy cough as he thumped his post on the desk and the dust pounced into the air, twisting like smoky dancers against a backdrop of grime. Argus picked off the seal of the scroll with his gnarled yellow nails, and bent close to the parchment so as to read the elaborate handwriting of the sender. It said:

_Dear Argus,_

_I'm sorry I haven't written for so long – I've been so busy with my Job in the Ministry. I got promoted in June – I've had so many now that Bonita told me off for not sounding surprise enough when my name was called – and I've been rushed off my feet with all of the charity work I'm doing at the moment. How's your job? Still working at Hogwarts I hear. Have you ever managed to clean that ceiling that I painted stars onto in my second year? Old Flitwick always said that was one of the best examples of the Staining Charm he'd ever seen. _

_But my promotion isn't the reason I'm sending you this letter; I'm writing to tell you that Bonita is expecting a child. It's due on the 26__th__ of January next year, so make sure that the congratulations card is sent some time then. Yes, it's definitely been our year this year! About time you swapped that horrid old cat for a proper woman yourself isn't it? _

_Yours faithfully,_

_Praestans Filch, Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, Member of the Ministry of Magic_

Perfect. Argus was stuck in a frustrating, dead-end job, surrounded by people he hated, doing no good to anybody, and Praestans was having the time of his life working for the biggest magical organisation in the World, filling his spare time by helping the needy with a loving wife. It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair and Argus was not going to stand for this anymore. Praestans needed to lose. Just once. _After all_, Argus reasoned, _no one deserves the perfect life, do they? Especially when the 'perfection' of the individual was more of masking layer no deeper than a muddy puddle._

And then, as he sat in his chair in his grimy office, swathed in the dingy light forced through the single window, a thought, a truly terrible thought, glided into his head and Argus Filch grinned a crooked grin. He knew how to get his own back.

* * *

Seven months later, and Argus was ready to wreak his revenge. He'd been so excited that he'd managed to be tolerant and even slightly accepting of the existence of the current students in the school during the week before.

On the 25th January 1998, just before midnight, Filch snuck out of his office in the dungeons and made for the office of Headmistress McGonagall. He uttered the password, swept easily past the stone gargoyle and faced the heavy oaken door of the office. He grasped the wrought iron lock under the handle of the door, felt around in the pocket of his threadbare overcoat and brought out an unimpressive knife with a stumpy blade. He'd seen of the students use it to break into a classroom years ago and confiscated it. So, if memory served him correctly... _Click!_ Argus trundled in followed closely by Mrs Norris. A foot in from the doorway, Filch stopped on the spot so as not to make any unnecessary noise by moving any further and gave Mrs Norris her orders.

Orders given, she slunk over the extensive tartan rug and into the room on the left of Professor McGonagall's sleeping chambers where the Magical Quill was kept. If Filch stood still enough, he was sure that he could hear it scratch on the aged parchment of the book in which it etched the names of every magical child born. Suddenly: silence; the scratching had stopped. A second later, Mrs Norris prowled back with a squirming glittered quill, glinting in the shafts of moonlight falling from the ceiling, clenched between her jaws. The pair sneaked back out of the office and trod their way back to Filch's quarters.

As the morning of the 26th dawned Filch woke and cast a furtive glance towards Mrs Norris who was curled in her ratty basket, the quill, still wriggling, clasped in her mouth. At this, Filch's features welcomed an unusual smile, and he set about his daily business with a glee unparalleled by any felt before in his life. His dear brother would become a father today. A father to what he would grow to believe was a failure, a Squib. A Squib like Argus. How would he like that? His hatred towards Argus manifested in an act so cruel that Argus could not quite believe what he'd done. The child would never have his name written in that book. It would never be accepted into Hogwarts. It would never learn magic.

Mrs Norris stayed in Filch's office all of that day to ensure that the child would be condemned regardless of the time it was born, and it was only when midnight was nearly upon them that they returned the Quill to its book. To Argus' delight it skipped over the blank page and started to scribble the names of the newly born witches and wizards of the 27th January.

It didn't matter that he'd robbed an innocent child of a magical life; Argus was innocent when he was robbed; when he was robbed of a life that was flaunted in his face every second of every day, locked just out of reach. Praestans' perfect life had been shattered.

* * *

Argus never received another letter from his brother – he was sure that even if he had he would not have mentioned his disappointing child. His plan had worked. On the day that the newest wizards and witches of Praestans' child's age arrived at the castle, Filch stood at the back of the hall, watching the Sorting smugly. Sure enough, the name 'Filch' was never called out.

* * *

Over the years, whenever Filch felt as though he needed to strike out against those that oppressed him on a daily basis, he would send Mrs Norris to steal the Quill for varying lengths of time. Over the years, the amount of witches and wizards that were forced to lead the lives of Squibs increased alarmingly in accordance with Filch's thriving intolerance and festering hatred of magical folk. McGonagall never noticed the blank pages as the ratio to magical and muggle children born daily had never been constant. And so, unnoticed for years, Filch damned blameless children to the life of personal unacceptance he never wanted.

**Hope you like my first one-shot; reviews would be lovely. Until next time, TTFN.**


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